Jonathan Coe - The Dwarves of Death

If I were to call Stacey down to earth, it wouldn’t be because she was unglamorous. On the contrary, with her cropped but slightly curly black hair, her wide shoulders and slender hips, she was always attracting attention from men. And if I were to call her uncomplaining, I wouldn’t want it to sound as though she was weak, or had no mind of her own. Maybe a better word would be ‘unflappable’. A slightly worrying theory occurs to me, which is that she saw right into the heart of me from day one, knew me through and through, knew exactly what to expect from me and so was never surprised when I behaved badly or put a difficult decision before her. In all my floundering, all my efforts to carve out a life for myself up there, she was always one step ahead of me. I dare say she’d already worked out for herself that it would be a good idea if I went to university, and was just waiting for me to realize it too.

We were engaged by then, but perhaps even so she saw it as the beginning of the end of our relationship, and accepted the fact, as readily as she accepted the prospect of my frequent absences. We continued to see each other, most weekends — sometimes in Leeds but more usually in Sheffield, where we would stay either with her family or mine, taking pleasure in being under the same roof even though provincial proprieties would not allow us to share a bed. Every Sunday, if it was a reasonable day, we would go walking up on the dales. Our favourite was to take a bus out to The Fox House, and then walk down the valley to Grindleford railway station, just by the Totley tunnel. It was a walk which could change dramatically with every season, and we did it in deep snow and bright sunshine; the leaves brilliant with the colours of spring or turning to copper against blue, autumnal skies.

That was how things were for the first couple of terms, anyway. When did it start to go wrong? When did we realize — long after the event, presumably — that we had become no more than a habit to one another, that the freshness and the admiration which we had taken for granted had faded into mere tolerance? To a sort of lazy familiarity, in fact, which was worse than indifference. I can’t even remember which of us suggested breaking off the engagement; what I can remember (and it seems peculiar, at this distance) is that we were more affectionate towards each other, that evening, than we had been for months. After that, there was a gradual drifting apart. Maybe she was seeing somebody else, or maybe she thought I was. I went back to Leeds to start my second year, continued to write to her occasionally, even saw her once or twice at weekends. We weren’t in each other’s thoughts much, for a while.

The last time I really spoke to her was the weekend I came down to Sheffield to say goodbye to my parents. We went on the same walk again, even though it was a grey and misty morning, and as we sat beside the edge of the stream, eating the sandwiches which Stacey’s mother had made for us, I told her:

‘I’ve decided to give up my degree.’

‘I know,’ she said.

‘Who told you?’

‘Derek. You’re going to go down to London, and become a musician.’

‘Are you surprised?’

‘No. I thought you might.’

I turned to her and said, earnestly, as she munched an egg mayonnaise sandwich, ‘I just think that if I don’t try now, I may be leaving it too late. I mean, chemistry’s something I can always come back to, and — ’

She interrupted me.

‘You don’t have to justify yourself to me, Bill. I know the kind of person you are. I think it’s good.’

I smiled, thankful, and didn’t try to explain further.

‘Have you got somewhere to stay?’

‘Tony — my piano teacher — he’s down there now. His sister-in-law’s got a flat and that’ll do to be going on with.’

‘When are you going?’

‘Soon. Next week some time.’

Stacey said, ‘Let me know when. Will you, please? Will you be going from here?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll take some time off work. I’ll come and see you off at the station.’

‘Don’t be silly, you don’t have to do that.’

‘I want to, though. I think it’s important.’

And so she was there at the station that morning, along with my mother. We didn’t get a chance to talk properly — you never do, on these occasions — and I can’t remember much that we said; but I’d be surprised if she didn’t find time to take me aside at some point and say — smiling, of course — ‘Don’t forget the phone, Bill.’

I hadn’t contacted her once since coming down to London.

*

Stacey had been eclipsed by Madeline; and that seems strange, in a way. Stranger still, though, is the thought that, temporarily at least, both of them had been eclipsed by Karla, and by that single, crystalline image I had of her voice cutting through the half-silence of a London night. I could hardly wait to get up to The White Goat that evening to tell her about it. I stopped off at a hamburger place on the way, bolted down some food, and arrived at the pub shortly after six o’clock.

Unfortunately I had forgotten how crowded it would be, this being Friday evening. She was being kept busy behind the bar, with a whole row of men’s faces lined up in front of her, waving money and barking orders, and although she nodded a friendly ‘Hello’ to me as I asked for my first drink, it wasn’t until I came back for my second that we managed to get talking. Even then, there was a crowd of people around, and I only had half her attention.

‘Can we talk?’ I said in a loud whisper.

‘Sure,’ she answered.

‘I mean — there’s something I want to tell you.’

‘Can’t it wait?’

‘Well… maybe when things have quietened down a bit.’

She shook her head.

‘Fridays are like this all night. What’s the matter, is it something personal?’

‘Well yes, in a manner of — ’

Just then some bloke in a suit with a wad of ten-pound notes in his hand cut across me and started ordering about fifteen lagers. While Karla was pulling them, I followed her up the bar and said:

‘It’s about something that happened last night.’

‘Oh yes?’

I paused, and announced, in a low voice: ‘I heard you.’

‘What do you mean?’ she said, not looking up from her work.

‘I mean I was there. Outside your window, last night.’

She stared at me.

‘What are you talking about?’

‘It was absolutely beautiful. I’ve never heard anything like it.’

‘A few packets of dry roasted, too, while you’re at it, love,’ the customer shouted. ‘And a box of Hamlets.’

‘Are you some kind of pervert or something?’ she said.

‘Don’t be silly. I wasn’t following you, or anything like that. It’s just that I wanted a word with you last night, but after I’d heard you singing I didn’t have to. I just listened and then went away again.’

‘Listen.’ She left the pumps and faced me squarely across the bar. ‘For your information — and not that it’s any of your business — I didn’t get back till two in the morning last night. I was round at a friend’s place. So I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.’ She turned to her customer. ‘How many packets was it?’

‘Four’ll do. Thanks.’

‘I mean — you don’t even know where I live.’

‘Yes I do. You told me you lived right opposite here, above the video shop.’

She went to fetch the peanuts, and when she came back I continued: ‘I stood outside your window — it was open — and there was this woman singing. She was Scottish, she was singing a Scottish song.’ I voiced the awful question: ‘It was you, wasn’t it?’

The customer paid her, she took the money and before going over to the till she said, impatiently: ‘That’s the flat below mine. There are a couple of hippies in there. They’re always getting pissed and playing their bloody folk records at top volume. The whole building stinks of real ale and roll-ups. You’ve only given me twelve, here,’ she added, to the man in the suit.